


sacred dislocations of mind

by architecture_in_f1ll0ry



Series: korvira week 2020 [2]
Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: F/F, First Kiss, Forgiveness, Hurt/Comfort, Korvira Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26838394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/architecture_in_f1ll0ry/pseuds/architecture_in_f1ll0ry
Summary: “I—” and then Kuvira sways dangerously, bracing herself with one hand against Korra’s doorway. When she speaks, her voice is faint, though still shot through with the gravel and heat Korra remembers too well. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”--Kuvira comes back, and it's as if she never left.
Relationships: Korra/Kuvira (Avatar)
Series: korvira week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1957684
Comments: 6
Kudos: 84





	sacred dislocations of mind

**Author's Note:**

> my entry for day two of korvira week, for the theme of forgiveness. here's a roundabout take.
> 
> cw // blood, non-serious injury
> 
> I'm not a doctor, okay? 
> 
> title is from the poem "late shift" by tim seibles—I've included some of it below.
> 
> \--
> 
> Places —  
> maybe dreams
> 
> form what I cannot return: the velvet
> 
> touch of Her lips, first light  
> fingering a cup: sacred dislocations
> 
> of mind — the way the right sound  
> becomes visible.
> 
> Where I am now  
> it's later — the clocks have been amended
> 
> to include all the strange hours —
> 
> and Someone cracked my name  
> as if all my life I'd been locked inside.
> 
> I know the shelves stay stocked, big cars lead the chase,  
> there's always more and more to eat.
> 
> But was that ever my country?
> 
> I was. born there.  
> And I'd go back if I could —
> 
> just to feel less lonely —  
> but what I took
> 
> to be a certain distance  
> was actually a late shift in myself,

Korra’s startled out of sleep in the middle of the night, confused, blinking woozily up at the ceiling. And then the sound comes again—someone’s pounding on her front door. She leaps out of bed, airbending herself down silently, heart thrumming. All traces of exhaustion gone, she creeps into her living room, eyes darting around, on high alert. She bends a small flame into the shape of a dagger as she peers into the peephole. And then her jaw drops open in shock. 

She yanks the door open, aghast, trying to process what she’s seeing. _“Kuvira?”_

The metalbender—who many assumed dead since she went missing over a year ago—glances wearily up at her with a wince. Her voice is strained and gravelly when she speaks, but still somehow bearing a hint of sarcasm. “Avatar.” 

“What the _hell_ —where have you been? What happened to you?”

Kuvira’s clutching a hand to her side, almost doubled over, her clothes torn and bloodied. Her face is lined with cuts and bruises, her previously prim, tidy hair now long and unkempt. She looks more fully up at Korra now, revealing a long gash in her temple, crusted with dried blood. “I—” and then she sways dangerously, bracing herself with one hand against Korra’s doorway. When she speaks, her voice is faint, though still shot through with the dominance and heat Korra remembers too well. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Korra shakes her head, bewildered, then glances up and down the street. Could it be a trap, somehow? This seemed like a really far fetched plot, and it wasn’t really Kuvira’s style, anyway. She’s never been one for theatrics. The decision is made for her when Kuvira stumbles again, and without thinking, Korra catches her in her arms, grunting a bit as Kuvira’s weight sags against her; she’s heavier than she looks. Her skin is cooler than seems healthy. 

“Well, come on in, then,” Korra mumbles, securing her grip around Kuvira’s waist, helping her past the threshold and into her apartment, kicking the door shut and locking it behind them. Kuvira’s head lolls until it rests against Korra’s shoulder, and she has to just stand there and come to grips with her current reality for a second. “Okay.”

A few bracing steps later, she gets Kuvira settled onto the couch, by which point she seems moments from unconsciousness, though her eyes are still slitted open, clearly working hard to stay upright. Water. She could use some water.

“I’ll be right back,” Korra tells her, and waits until Kuvira nods tiredly to disappear into the kitchen, filling a glass and hurrying back to the living room, as if afraid she might have vanished. Kuvira downs the glass in seemingly one grateful gulp, so Korra gets her another.

“Thanks.”

“Do you need...are you hungry?”

Kuvira shakes her head, looking slightly ill at the thought. Korra frowns, taking the glass and setting it on the table, then shrugs, scanning her long, thin frame, figuring Kuvira would speak up if she were actually about to starve. 

  
  


Kuvira watches as Korra kneels to unbuckle and pull off her boots, sits forward obligingly when Korra eases her up to unbutton and pull off her tattered jacket. 

“Spirits,” Korra breathes as Kuvira hisses, finally moving her arm to reveal the bloodiest spot in her side, the thick, dark wetness clinging to the fabric. “Is it—” she glances uncertainly up at Kuvira’s slight wince. 

Kuvira shakes her head once, inhales, exhales. “It’s worse than it looks. I think.”

“Okay. Um,” Korra kneels lower, indicating for Kuvira to use her as a support again. “We have to clean this up, and then I can dress it. And this too,” she mumbles, extending a hand to gently touch the cut in Kuvira’s temple, pulling it back before she makes contact. Kuvira just blinks at her, her expression still somehow as maddeningly inscrutable as ever, even now. Is this a dream? Clearly not, because it’s too real, the slight tickle of Kuvira’s hair where it brushes Korra’s arm and shoulder, the tangy smell of her sweat, mingled with something sharper, more metallic. 

And what else is she supposed to do? She’s already invited her inside; she can’t leave her to bleed out on her couch, nor does she want to. “You’re really lucky I’m so nice.”

Kuvira remains silent, and Korra regrets the joking words once they’re out of her mouth, for some reason, but she can’t take them back.

The bathroom light feels offensively bright, and Korra is even more unsettled and out of touch with reality when she catches a glimpse of them in the mirror above the sink: Kuvira looks much worse where it’s well-lit. As if she’d heard the thought, Kuvira’s eyes catch Korra’s in the mirror before quickly flicking away.

Korra sets her down on the closed toilet lid, and then turns on the taps to get the water hot, a little gratified when the sound seems to wake Kuvira up, a little. She isn’t looking forward to playing nurse, and a half-dead patient won’t make things any easier.

“So…” Korra begins, crossing to the linen closet to pull out her supply kit. “Are you going to tell me how this happened?”

Kuvira watches her bustle around, hunched over in pain, and shakes her head. “Long story.”

“We have time,” Korra shoots back, feeling the corner of her mouth lift as she opens the box and sets it on the side of the tub, then goes back to the closet for a few washcloths. She waits as she runs the first one below the hot water, then shuts it off, wringing out the extra moisture. Every sound seems grossly magnified in the otherwise silent bathroom, drops of water hitting the bottom of the sink, the scrape of the stool as Korra lowers herself to sitting in front of Kuvira, her feet shifting on the cool tile as she bends lower to inspect the wound, humming her thanks when Kuvira holds up the bottom of the shirt, leaving enough skin exposes for a thorough examination. “Anyone I know?” She asks, prompting, when Kuvira doesn’t speak. 

Kuvira hisses when the washcloth touches her skin, then closes her teeth on her lip, shaking her head. “No,” she bites out finally, watching Korra move the cloth slowly over her skin, cleaning the wound. “A small faction of disgruntled earthbenders. I took them down eventually—” she stops with a small grunt, closing her eyes. 

“Sorry,” Korra says quietly, not even intending to, only lifting her eyes for a second, then dropping them back down to Kuvira’s skin. 

“It’s fine.” Kuvira inhales and exhales slowly, blinking. She seems to lose the thread, just gazing down at the bloodied washcloth with unseeing eyes.

Korra drops it onto the ground, and then stands to wet another. She looks back at Kuvira as she wrings it out, curious. “You took them down eventually…?”

“Yes,” Kuvira says, nodding tiredly. “I’d been—distracted. Weakened. They got the best of me, just long enough to make it count.” She sits back until her head connects with the cabinet behind her, her eyes drifting shut, revealing paper-thin eyelids shot through with visible veins. 

Korra sits back down, unthinkingly placing her hands against Kuvira’s bared stomach and waist to reposition her, leaning in and squinting as she continues to dab at the wound. “Well…” She isn’t quite sure of what to say, how to reconcile the relief she feels that Kuvira isn’t dead with the pang of worry for the people she’s clearly killed in self-defense—but the whole situation is too intensely bizarre, the hour too late for her to feel beholden to a normal response. “Well, alright then.” She ignores the way Kuvira’s mouth turns up in a slight smirk, tossing the second stained washcloth onto the ground. She has approximately a million and one more questions, but... “I’m going to apply some ointment now. This will sting.”

“I’ll be fine,” Kuvira says wearily, her eyes still shut.

Korra uncaps the small tube and squirts a generous amount into her palm, pulling a gentle flare of heat into her palm to warm it up. Then she dips two fingers in to collect a small dollop, looking up at Kuvira for a moment before smearing it slowly along the freshly-cleaned jagged contours of the wound. She winces in sympathy as Kuvira bites back a pained moan a second too late, but continues, working methodically until the ointment is gone. When she looks up again, Kuvira’s chest is rising and falling steadily, the pinch between her brows and set of her clenched jaw the only indicators of her pain. 

“It’s okay,” she says evenly, correctly guessing the reason for Korra’s hesitation.

“Why didn’t you go back to Zaofu?” Korra asks, wiping the remnants of the ointment onto a clean edge of one of the used washcloths, then retrieving some gauze and tape from the kit. She expects Kuvira’s silence, so she just waits, pulling off a strip and separating it from the roll with her teeth, slowly positioning it over the shining skin and applying gentle, sweeping lines of pressure over its length.

Kuvira doesn’t answer until Korra’s gone over the gauze with a careful layer of tape, staring unseeingly over Korra’s head into the mirror above the sink. “I couldn’t.”

“Why not?” Korra inspects her work, nodding to herself, and then straightens, frowning slightly when Kuvira’s gaze meets hers. From this close, Korra can see every shade of green in Kuvira’s eyes, and the dark rings beneath them. “Look over here.”

“I said I couldn’t.” Kuvira’s voice turns harsh, even as she immediately obeys, turning her head so that Korra can survey the damage on her face. “Drop it.”

“You show up at my door in the middle of the night,” Korra grumbles beneath her breath, rolling her eyes, but gently cradles Kuvira’s jaw anyway, tilting it from side to side, then letting go to stand and wet a third washcloth. “How did you know where I lived, anyway?”

Kuvira chokes out a dry laugh, which turns into a short, hacking cough. “What kind of a question is that.”

Korra huffs, resettling in front of Kuvira, trying not to smile. “I guess every good villain has to be a stalker.”

Kuvira snorts, again allowing Korra to gently manhandle her into position, staying still as Korra dabs at her face with the damp cloth. “A _good_ villain? I think I’m touched.”

“Shut up,” Korra grouses, her eyes finding Kuvira’s once more, intending to make a face at her, losing the desire almost immediately. A pregnant moment pulses past, and then another, unraveling the unreality of the whole night, their universes colliding so suddenly and unexpectedly Korra realizes she’s still not exactly sure which way is up. Still not completely convinced she won’t wake tomorrow alone in her apartment, having encountered all of this—the soft skin of Kuvira’s jaw, the way she tilts so easily into Korra’s touch—somewhere within a half-forgotten dream.

Korra blinks and looks away, getting the ointment next, following the same steady procedure—dabbing it along the long, thin wound, dressing it with a row of bandages—while her heart hammers against her ribs, now helplessly beholden to the strange tension that infuses the room. She feels vulnerable now, somehow, as though she’s not the one who’s whole and healthy, tending to a weakened Kuvira’s wounds as she sits half-slumped against her toilet. But Kuvira has always been able to make her feel uniquely unmoored; there’s just something _familiar_ about her, a refined and appealing likeness in her gait, her cunning, her bravado, that Korra became aware of long ago. 

But she hasn’t had to think about it, once Kuvira was finally released from her five-year house arrest term and vanished into the desert all that time ago. Hasn’t had to confront the gaping question mark of that... _intense_ moment they'd shared in the spirit world immediately after her failed takeover; her late-night fantasy meanderings of _what if,_ even during her ill-fated three year relationship with Asami. 

“Avatar?”

Korra starts, realizing with a jolt that she’s been running her fingertips gently along the edges of Kuvira’s newly placed bandages, tracing the path from her temple to her jaw, seemingly to check her handiwork, entirely too slow and careful to be anything but...accidental. Tender. She pulls away and shuts her kit, standing to place it back on the shelf. 

“Korra,” she corrects. “Feel free to bathe, or...whatever, if you’d like.” She injects a false note of normalcy in her tone, grabbing a towel and washcloth, placing them on the sink. She can’t look at Kuvira, can’t let her see how pink her cheeks surely are. Then she remembers the mirror and curses beneath her breath—she’s not hiding a thing. “Just mind the bandages. I suppose you can…” Korra glances around the bathroom, stupidly, as if trying to find metal for Kuvira to implement, as if she doesn’t already know Kuvira keeps her tools on her at all times. 

When she finally glances back over at Kuvira, she’s wearing an expression not far from an exhausted smirk. “Yes, I can.”

“Okay,” Korra says, more to herself than to Kuvira. Steps outside of the bathroom, and closes the door.

Clothes, she’ll need clothes. Korra flicks on her bedroom light and crosses to her drawer, laughing a little at herself as she paws through her tank tops, then her sweatpants, careful not to think too hard. Who cares which would fit Kuvira better? It’s _Kuvira._

In her house. Currently in her bathroom, taking a shower, because Korra can hear the water running, and then she stops that thought in its tracks.

“It’s Kuvira,” she says out loud, chiding, and shuts the drawer. Sits on the bed, dropping the clothes into a pile beside her. Stares out of the window at the dark, moonless sky. The clock reads 3:14, and her skin sings with something like thrill and dread as she finally flings open the hatches keeping all of Those Thoughts at bay, because it seems as great a time as any to do so. 

The thing is, they’d just never discussed it again. Korra knows she wasn’t imagining it, the way each moment with Kuvira in the spirit world felt weighted and unforgettably sharp, clarified. The succession of events felt almost laughably bizarre: Kuvira launching that fucking brick that knocked all of the wind out of Korra; Kuvira freezing, eyes bulging in panic, as Korra skidded over to protect her from her own weapon gone rogue; Kuvira sinking into Korra’s arms, eyes closed, as Korra touched down in that lush meadow of sweet-smelling flowers. It felt like some cosmic joke; a message within yet another message within a bottle. Korra knows she wasn’t imagining the way Kuvira shrank in on herself the moment she and Korra were no longer touching, the way Kuvira gaped silently at her, her face slackened in something like grief, but, strangely, relief. 

Korra remembers thinking, at that moment, _I know you._

They’d never discussed it, they’d never had another conversation even come close to that level of—intimacy, Korra supposes she should call it. The election, Kuvira’s Not-Escape, her sentencing and reconciliation—it was good, it warmed Korra to be proven correct about Kuvira, because she really does still hate to be wrong. Enlightenment and personal growth aside. She was _right_ about Kuvira. 

And then Kuvira had left, and some people wondered, and some were relieved, and Korra managed to think of other things, eventually. She’d had enough practice, by that point, tamping down her occasional flares of curiosity. Asami was there, Asami was gentle and fierce and compassionate and Korra’s best friend, nestled into a place in her heart that no one could ever touch. She had Asami; she didn’t need to keep mulling over a strange moment with a former enemy. And even by the time that her and Asami’s love didn’t carry them through to forever, like she once thought it would, Korra had long stopped wondering about Kuvira. 

Tonight, or this morning, whatever, she is wondering again. 

She jumps when she hears her name. 

Kuvira has the door slitted open when Korra enters the hallway, just enough to let a few plumes of steam out, wrapped in a towel. Korra didn’t mean to give her such a small one.

“—row some clothes?”

Korra blinks. “What?” 

“Do you have some clothes? I can borrow?” Kuvira doesn’t look annoyed, just tired, if somewhat sheepish about her own neediness. 

“Yeah, I—” Korra darts back into her room, grabs them, returns to the bathroom, passing them through the cracked door. Kuvira’s fingers are warm when they graze Korra’s. “Here.”

“Thanks.” When the door closes, Korra rolls her eyes at herself. She walks into the living room and stands there, staring at the couch. Then she turns off the lights and returns to her room.

She has a very large bed. She’s definitely overthinking this.

A normal course of action is _not_ inviting someone who’d once slapped metal cuffs to your wrists and suspended you in midair, dozens of feet above the ground, into your bed. Korra is pretty certain of that. And yet.

When Kuvira knocks quietly on her door, Korra’s lying on her back, staring unblinkingly upward. She doesn’t look over and she doesn’t speak, but from her peripheral vision she can see Kuvira ease the door open and peek inside anyway. It's almost—cute.

“Why are you really here?” Korra asks. She can hear Kuvira’s soft sigh, can sense the exhaustion rolling off her in waves. She turns to look at her, pensive, then turns back to keep inspecting the long, thin crack in the ceiling. “You should lie down before you pass out, probably.”

“I can sleep on the couch.” Kuvira sounds unsure, which is expected, and still weird. 

“Do you _want_ to sleep on the couch?” 

Kuvira sighs once, and then she’s crossing the room, sinking onto Korra’s bed with an air of surrender, mirroring Korra’s position. Her hair is curled into damp waves, and it smells like Korra’s shampoo, which is weirdly alluring. “I’m too tired for riddles,” Kuvira chides, then yawns, widely. It’s such an unexpected sight that Korra doesn’t even realize she’s looked over until Kuvira meets her eyes, lowering her hand from her mouth, her expression soft, confused.

“You’re so strange, Korra.”

_“This_ is strange,” Korra replies, unfazed. “Why did you leave?”

“What was there for me here?” Kuvira returns, her voice pitched low to match Korra’s, not missing a beat. “Anywhere?”

“Your family?”

Kuvira’s face does a funny thing, and her eyes flick between Korra’s a few times. “They were glad to see me go.”

“Well,” Korra begins, “Now what?”

“I don’t know.” Kuvira says it so simply, like she’s already made peace with it. Then she pauses, just watching Korra for a few seconds. “I don’t exp—” and then she stops talking, because Korra is kissing her. 

Yeah, it feels exactly the way Korra imagined it would. And also, not at all. Kuvira’s lips are soft, and cling to hers with gentle heat, and she smells like Korra’s soap, and when she opens her mouth into the kiss, Korra’s own small, involuntary sound makes her jerk away, as if she, Korra, hadn’t been the one to lean over and finally quell her curiosity. Kuvira just looks at her, then her eyes drop back down to Korra’s mouth as she licks her lips. Then she turns over, onto her side, facing away from Korra.

Korra lies there, flummoxed, eyeing the long, smooth line of Kuvira’s spine beneath her tank top, considering the messy spill of dark hair dampening her pillow. She wants to touch her fingertips to her mouth, but she stops herself.

“Night,” she tosses out uncertainly, then leans behind her to flick off her lamp, plunging the room back into darkness. She wonders if Kuvira can hear her heart pounding, can feel its unsteady rhythm as it tries and fails to stabilize, beat correctly. 

“You kissed me.” Kuvira says it so quietly Korra thinks, for a second, that she imagined it. There’s a sleepy smile in Kuvira’s voice, and then the slow rush of air that signals another yawn, her back rising and falling slowly. “Tomorrow, remind me to ask you why.”

Korra grins, then shoves it quickly away. “Will do?” She waits, heart loud, breaths short. There will be much more than that to discuss tomorrow, Kuvira doesn't say, and Korra doesn't either—they don't need to. 

Then the silence just becomes air, the tension melting back into familiar touchstones of reality. It’s a quarter to 4, and soon it will be morning, and Kuvira will, presumably, still be here, sleeping in Korra’s bed, a light, huffing breath escaping every so often. No longer an enemy. So far from an enemy.

Korra falls asleep too, sinking into a dream of violet blossoms that bloom and drip like fresh blood, of hands and eyes and mirrors, seeing and unseeing. At one point, when she wakes, there’s a warm, firm body tucked solidly against her front, and she only has a moment to wonder who it is before sleep pulls her back under. 

The next day, Korra tells Kuvira why. Kuvira laughs, but it’s full of revelation, not so much humor. This time, she pulls Korra in first, and this time, neither of them pull away.


End file.
